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Blinking back tears, I crumple the newspaper and toss it aside. My throat burns as I turn toward the windows. Icicles form over my heart as my eyes widen. I look over my shoulder at the crumpled paper, every cell in my body slowly stilling. Was he just using me? That special connection I felt—did it even exist?
Evidently not, if he didn’t even have the decency to mention he was planning a trip to my own damn country. He lied. Denied it. Told me he wouldn’t come here. Said he didn’t have time.
I…argh. I want to smash this window to pieces with my silver lunch tray. Smack him across the head with it. I’m too full of emotion right now, like I’m about to boil over.
After seven years of cold distance from my emotions, anger feels good. It burns through my veins like poison, and I want nothing more than to see Asher and tell him exactly what I think of him. He thinks he can use me for sex, then turn around and never speak to me again? He thinks he can expand his father’s business into Nord after tossing me aside like a used tissue?
Think again, Gerhard.
Rage is hot and bright. In a life where I’ve been cold and distant, the fiery bite of anger is almost addictive. I dive into the feeling, swimming in my own fury.
He used me. He took me into that room, turned me around, and fucked me from behind with his hand over my mouth, then sent me on my way.
How fucking dare he?
In a small, quiet corner of my mind, I think my anger might not be justified. He doesn’t need to tell me his travel plans just because he sleeps with me. He’s welcome to visit Nord, and having more companies expand into Nord would probably help the whole political situation. It would give me options other than Donovan Enterprises, for one.
But anger feels too good to ignore, and I push those rational thoughts aside.
He told me he had no time to come to Nord, and then came straight here. How am I supposed to ignore the sting of that slap?
I jump when the door opens. A staff member curtsies and asks to remove the silver lunch tray. She’s young—barely a teen. I haven’t seen her before. Her eyes climb up to mine then dart away. “Do you need anything else, Your Majesty?” Her voice is thin. She’s afraid. She can sense the anger washing over me in waves.
I’m used to that reaction. Many people have heard stories about me. I never smile. I’m cold. Heartless.
“Get me Frederick,” I tell the trembling woman. She curtsies again and scurries out of the room. I sit down and lean against the back of my chair, feeling the sun warming my neck through the window, and I feel hot for the first time in years.
So hot I might combust. Like my whole body is on fire, and I need to fix this. Throw something. Kill someone.
Preferably Asher fucking Gerhard.
Frederick, my private secretary, enters the room. He has a thick, black mustache and equally black hair. His father served my father, and his family has been in service to the Crown for generations. He gives me a low bow. “You called, Your Majesty?”
I lift my chin. “Find Asher Gerhard and take me to him. He arrived in Nord this week.”
“Ma’am,” Frederick starts, stuttering. “You want…”
“I want you to call a car, find an address, and take me there. Is that a problem?” My voice is frosty. So cold the sunlight seems to dim.
Frederick bows. “Right away, Your Majesty.”
Standing, I pick up the crumpled newspaper article and smooth it out again. I fold it as neatly as I can and tuck it under my arm. My steps are purposeful as I walk toward the entrance of the castle. The haughty gazes of ancestors on oil paintings no longer make me bow my head, they only fuel whatever rage is simmering in my chest.
I am the Queen, and I will not be disrespected in my own land.
When I get to the front door, a footman is already waiting with my hat and jacket. I slip them on, then tug gloves on over my hands. It’s warm enough not to wear them in summertime, but I feel like I’m donning armor before a battle. The footman holds up a mirror and I check my hair, then walk to the palace’s front doors.
Frederick is there. He nods. “He rented an office in the city,” my personal secretary explains. “Not hard to find. We can send a car for him if you’d rather stay here—”
“No.” I don’t want Asher in my castle. I want him in his shitty little office, and I want to make him feel small. I want to fill up that space with my staff and my presence and show him exactly who I am. But I don’t tell Frederick that, because I don’t have to explain my reasons for wanting to go to Asher. I don’t need to explain anything to anyone.
My anger winds tighter when I think of Asher’s office—an office! He’s here a few days and he’s already rented an office! The fucking nerve.
Two staff members open the double doors for me, and another staff member stands at the back door of the waiting vehicle. I slide inside, tucking my feet in as the man closes the car door. My face is unmoving, my jaw clenched. My heart feels hot. Too hot. Like it might burn a hole right through my chest.
But it thumps, and I haven’t felt my heart beat this hard in—well, since I was last with Asher. This is different, though. This is righteous, burning anger.
I lean into the feeling, letting my thoughts circle back to his excuses. Too busy to come to Nord, he reckoned. How dare he. How dare Asher use me like that, then turn around and think he can establish his company here. How dare he touch me and kiss me and put his—ugh—put his cock in me, then leave the wedding and say nothing to me? Then he thinks he can come here and start a business? Ha! He thinks he’s some brilliant businessman? The best closer in his family’s history? Give me a fucking break.
